


It Always Rains on a Picnic

by rabidchild67



Series: Five Times... [12]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal prepares a picnic while Satchmo gets in trouble. </p>
<p>Also: more recipes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Always Rains on a Picnic

Neal finished slicing up the last of the strawberries and cherries and scooped them into the plastic pitcher. He poured in the brandy and sugar and swirled everything together to combine with the peaches that were already inside. He covered it and put the container into the fridge.

It was a sunny and pleasant Saturday in late June and he’d decided to throw together a picnic for everyone. He thought a change of pace would be a fun and romantic diversion.

“ _A message to you, Rudi. A message to you_!” He turned up the volume on the stereo. He loved listening to old ska music from the 80’s when he was cooking; something about the deep base lines jibed well with the pace of his cooking: chop-uh-chop- _uhhh_. He skanked over to the pantry and gathered up a few ingredients for the hummus he was preparing next: beans, oil, tahini. He spun, moved back to the counter and unloaded.

He heard a movement behind him and turned. “You’re home early,” he greeted Elizabeth, feeling busted. He wasn’t expecting anyone to disturb him just yet. Peter was working at the office for the morning and El had been out running errands. He picked up the remote and dialed down the volume on his iPod.

She grabbed a strawberry from the box on the counter and took a bite, eyeing him archly. Neal rarely danced and when he did, he was so bad it was either tragic or comic, and sometimes both. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“Making us a picnic. Thought we’d dine al fresco this evening, hit the park, throw the ball around for Satch.”

“Aww,” she said, caressing his cheek. “Carry on.” She grabbed another berry and the dog’s leash from the hook on the wall. “Come on, Satch, time for walkies! Let’s leave Mr. Neal to the cooking.”

Neal cranked up the volume and hit the button on the food processor as the back door banged shut behind Elizabeth.

Minutes later, Neal heard the front door open and close again. He was whisking the vinaigrette for the potato salad together when he heard the scuff of a shoe on the tile floor behind him. “I thought you were going over your testimony with the AUSA?”

“She canceled. Sick kid or something.” Peter came up behind him and pressed himself against Neal's back. Neal leaned his head back for a kiss. “Whatcha doin’?” He snagged a radish and popped it in his mouth.

“Making a picnic.”

“Where’s El?”

“She took Satch for a walk.” They made small talk while Neal worked, and finally Peter went upstairs to change his clothes.

Fifteen minutes later, Neal jumped as the back door opened with a bang, shaking the wall. There was the rushed clicking of dog claws and Satchmo pushed through the kitchen door. He headed straight for Neal and sat himself down on top of his feet, leaving Neal between the dog and any wrath Elizabeth might choose to rain down should she enter the room.

“Hey, Satch, what’s going on?” Neal asked, a hand on the dog’s head. Satchmo looked up at Neal, his tongue lolling, a sheepish expression on his face.

“ _Peter!”_ Neal heard Elizabeth yell from the other room. Then he heard Peter’s footsteps as he clambered down the steps.

“ _What is it, hon? What happened?”_

“ _Do you know what **your** dog did?!?”_ El’s voice was high, emotional, indignant. If she was referring to Satchmo as _Peter’s_ dog, then it was serious.

“Ooo, sounds like you’re in big trouble, buddy.” Neal gestured for Satch to hit his bed in the corner and the dog retreated. He tossed the elements of the potato salad together with the dressing and dumped it into a plastic container.

“ _Look at me! My pants are ruined. I’ve got skinned knees_!” El was ranting as she came through to the kitchen. She banged through a few cabinets in search of the First Aid kit. She caught sight of Satchmo – who had the grace to at least look chagrined – and sniffed indignantly. She returned to the living room.

“ _Tell me what happened_ ,” Peter said carefully.

In the kitchen, Neal put his new grill pan onto the stove to heat. El had bought it for him at the flea market the previous week and he was eager to try it out. He began slicing eggplant, peppers and zucchini to be grilled for the sandwich he was making.

“ _You know that cocker spaniel on the next block?”_ El was saying.

Neal thought he knew where this was going.

“ _Yes?_ ” Peter clearly did not.

“ _Well, apparently she’s in heat. And your dog, the horny little bastard, decided he might just want to hit that_.”

Neal flinched. Elizabeth Burke had just said, “Hit that.”

“ _Oh_.”

“ _Yes. Oh. And he pulled me down and dragged me about a half a block before I could get him under control_.” Her voice was shaking with emotion, Neal could hear. Things didn’t look good for Satchmo.

“ _Here, let me help with that_ ,” Peter said.

Neal guessed he might be helping her with her scrapes. A part of him wanted to go make sure everything with Elizabeth was OK, but then his survival instinct kicked in and he realized he didn’t want to be in her line of fire. He placed a load of the veggies he’d just sliced and brushed with olive oil onto the grill pan, where they gave a satisfying _hiss_.

_“Peter, we have **got** to get that dog fixed!”_

Neal glanced over at Satchmo, who closed his panting mouth and looked right back at him with interest as if to say, “Biscuit?

Neal shook his head. “I love how clueless you are.” He jumped as the kitchen door swung inward and Peter came into the room.

Peter sighed. “There’s no talking to her when she’s like this. Have you seen the peroxide?”

“Try the fridge.”

Peter found the brown plastic bottle in the door of the refrigerator. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked Neal.

“Get the dog fixed,” Neal told him, flipping the veggies over in the pan.

Peter blanched. “I can’t do that to him. Look at that face.”

They looked over at Satchmo, whose mouth was working at a stuffed sheep, which was squeaking plaintively. When he noticed they were looking at him he lifted his ass in the air playfully.

“He’s an enigma,” Neal observed drily. “You don’t have a choice, really, Peter.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

“You’re really signing up for this argument?” Neal said, turning to face him, looking him in the eye for the first time that afternoon.

“Yes?”

“Way to be decisive. Go get ‘er.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?”

“Get your dog fixed,” Neal repeated pointedly. He honestly didn’t see what the big deal was – as he saw it, it was the responsible thing to do, as a pet owner.

Peter looked as if he’d been betrayed and Neal swore he would have reached his hands down to cover his groin if he hadn’t caught himself. He returned wordlessly to the living room.

“ _Can we talk about this?”_ Peter asked.

_“What’s to talk about? This isn’t the first time this has happened. We’re lucky we’re not paying child support or whatever. Remember that Chihuahua last year?”_

“Heh, puppy support,” both Peter and Neal said at the same time, but Neal was safely ensconced in the kitchen.

_“I’m glad to see you can laugh at this.”_

_“Sweetie –“_

_“Honey. If you don’t make the appointment with the vet, I will.”_

_“You know he doesn’t like the vet!”_

_“Oh, my God!”_

Neal could hear her bare feet approaching the door; for a petite woman, she walked hard on her heels and made an incredible racket. He didn’t jump this time when the door exploded inward. He chanced a look in her direction, saw that her Capri pants were rolled up over her knees, two enormous Band-Aids adorning them. He’d have to remember to draw on them later, like his mom used to when he was a kid.

Elizabeth grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it from the water cooler. “Ach, he does this all the time,” she complained to Neal.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“He thinks if he just ignores it, I’ll forget about it. But not this time.”

Neal marveled at how fumingly mad she was. The guys at the FBI office were right to be intimidated by her. He hoped his expression looked suitably sympathetic. There was no way he was getting into the middle of this. He took the remaining veggies off the grill pan and shut off the stove.

“I mean, am I being irrational here? What do you think?”

Ah, so he was being dragged into it anyway; he turned to face her. “Well, no,” he began, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “But you have to understand that it’s hard for a man – some men – to do _that_ ,” he gestured at his own crotch with the tongs he held, “to their dogs.”

“Oh fer chrissakes! Really?”

Neal shrugged and turned back to the counter, took a tomato and started to slice it. El pounded back to the living room.

“ _And another thing,”_ she began.

Neal sighed; he wasn’t holding much hope that the romantic picnic he’d planned would go off very successfully. He pulled the loaf of focaccia bread he’d picked up at the market from its bag and laid it on the cutting board. Grabbing the bread knife, he began slicing it in half. But his attention was split by the argument going on in the other room; either the bread was softer than he’d allowed or the knife was sharper, but the latter kept going as it reached the edge of the loaf, cutting deeply into the meaty part of his left hand between thumb and index finger.

Neal gasped in sudden pain, dropping the knife. It clattered loudly to the floor. His hand was gushing blood; it splashed across his apron and shirt as he fumbled for a kitchen towel. But the towel had the container of potato salad on top of it, so that when Neal snatched it up the container went flying, hitting the floor, bouncing and finally landing against the far wall, disgorging its contents along the way.

Neal ignored it, wrapping his injured hand in the towel. His vision was beginning to go white around the edges; he hated the sight of his own blood. He gritted his teeth.

“Everything all right in here?” Peter said, poking his head through the door. He saw the blood and his face blanched. “Jesus!” He rushed over to Neal, who held his hand out to him mutely. Peter pulled back the blood-soaked towel and took a look. He hissed, pressed the towel back over the wound. “Keep applying pressure. I think you’re gonna need stitches. El!”

Elizabeth came into view, holding the door open with her right hand. She gasped, “Oh my God.”

“Can you go get the car? We have to go to the emergency room.” She nodded and ran to get her keys.

Peter grabbed another couple of towels from the drawer and put his hand on Neal's shoulder. “You OK?”

“No.”

“You will be. Let’s go.”

They headed for the front door, picnic and argument forgotten. As they left, Satch trotted over and began lapping up the potato salad, oblivious as ever.

\----

Thank you for your time.

Here’s Neal's menu:   
[ Grilled Vegetable Sandwich on Focaccia with Havarti  ](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/37431.html) and  [ Roasted Garlic Hummus ](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/30981.html)   
[ French Potato Salad ](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/31244.html)   
[ White Wine Sangria ](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/31510.html)   



End file.
